#(in addition to carrying humanity’s collective Dread about the black death + upheaval) when he meets Hob

[void-tiger]

Headcanon:

In Jessamy’s preRaven life, she wasn’t human. She was fay.

[thetorturerwrites]

Lamb Ch 7 - Ten Words

***This amazing artwork was gifted to me by @elmidol​​. Please do not re-use or re-post it without permission from them and/or myself. Don’t be a dickbag.

Previous Chapter

Summary: At the mouth of his keep, the gaping maw carved into the side of a mountain, you stopped short of crossing the threshold. You folded your arms about your middle and chewed your upper lip, even taking a step back from it. He had reacted so violently to your original request that you, smartly, found this to be a dubious decision. It would surprise no part of you that he brought you here to test you, to see just how much of an idiot you still could be. Unsettled, you glued your eyes to the ground.

His voice, subtler than before and less agitated, broke through your anxious diatribe, and he tucked his hand beneath your upper arm and squeezed.“You wanted to go outside.”

Word Count: 4.5k

Dear Nona

I miss you more than I can say.  I’ve done something stupid, and I desperately need your guidance. It all started in Chandrila…

Sharing your troubles with Nona had always been your way of untangling the web, of shining a light on your confusion and turning it to the known.  But she wasn’t here. All you had was stolen paper and ink that smelled like ash.  For pages and pages, you poured out the details of your predicament until, finally, clarity sprung up from the dirty cobwebs of chaos. Leaf by leaf, it blossomed, sweeping away your doubt. Surprised by yourself, and this newfound understanding, you stared at the empty door frame in complete silence.

You couldn’t say how much time passed in your fugue, only that this world matched your quiet, lending weight to what you felt was a profound knowing, an awareness you previously lacked.

It wasn’t until the King of this sleepy hollow appeared in the doorway that you blinked. Silent as the grave himself, he saturated you with his assessing stare. Tainted by the cool calculation, the omnipresent dislike he seemed to have for your human frailty, your blood thickened, sending a thrum to even the furthest reaches of your body.

It took him only a single stride to cross to the foot of the bed; and once made, it took only the span of his arm to reach you at the bed’s top. Wrapping exacting fingers around your ankle, he dragged you through paper, ink, and bedsheets until you sat at the foot, legs parted on either side of his wide body, back arched, and face tipped up by a knuckle at your chin.

“Clothes. Paper.” He rubbed at your mouth with his thumb, chiding you in a way you didn’t think should be so arousing. “What will you steal next, hm?”

You rolled your lips together because he wasn’t wrong. Everything you’d collected in your time here belonged to him; all of it snuck in his absences. Better to ask forgiveness than permission, your mother always said, but you weren’t so certain of that tactic here. Permission wasn’t something The Ren gave easily. Nor forgiveness.

“It was a test, wasn’t it?”

You hadn’t planned to answer his question that way, and your jaw snapped shut so hard you winced. Even knowing how much he disliked it when you answered a question with a question, your brain still fired a mile a minute, tumbling over itself.

His shifting gaze darkened, but an amused smirk played at his plump lips, accompanied by the lift of one eyebrow. He was humoring you; you knew the signs now. You lifted your chin away from his fingers and looked at the mass of his chest, brow furrowed.

“You thought taking me to that hilltop would kill me,” you nodded as though you still puzzled your way through it all, “Because I’m not like you. That’s why you said I could have died.”

You chewed your cheek for a moment and carried on, absently toying with his shirttail as though he was your partner, your lover, rather than your gatekeeper, your captor. Your eyes trailed to the trickle at your forearm, to the spell he put upon you to keep you suspended in this new dimension of being and not.

“That’s why everything here is dangerous to me.”

Dissatisfied with the absence of your gaze, he tangled long fingers into your hair and, with a harsh grip, bowed you back so you were forced to look at him, so your chest grazed at his belly. Undaunted, you clung to him and rushed on. You weren’t sure if he would tell you, but the only way to know was to ask.

“And whatever you’ve been feeding me,” you licked your lips at the memory of that seductively sweet taste you’d had just yesterday, “Made it so I didn’t. Right? But you weren’t sure it would work.”

You knew he could see the last bit clawing at the inside of your brain, knew it painted your features. Holding your head hostage, he traced the obsidian collar around your neck slowly, pointedly, as though to mark the arc death would take in slicing open your neck.

“Go on.” He shook your head slightly, as though to rattle your mind into functioning. “Say it.”

You gulped hard when his finger rested against your pulse. It hammered furiously, and you could feel it in your temples, chinking away at your ability to think. When the words came, they rode a whisper laden with uncertainty, upheaval.

“And you wouldn’t fuck me until you knew I wouldn’t die.”

His eyes flitted from you to the mess of parchment and blotchy words strewn across his bed.  “Figured out the cosmos, have we, lamb?” 

“No.” Foolishly, you interrupted whatever he may have said next, but you shook your head in his grip anyway, keeping your eyes upon his contemplative features. “Just my place in it.” You gripped the black fabric at his hips, leaning into him for support.  “For now.��

Wisely, you stayed still, watching him as he evaluated you. His eyes darted from your wrinkled brow to your mouth. Then, lower to the dip of your throat. You wanted him to kiss you, as though he could taste your truthfulness on your tongue. You were far from knowing his capabilities, and your brow furrowed more when an additional question took root.

His entertained smirk turned mocking, judging as he watched it play across your face. For a second, you thought he’d answered your question with his features alone, that he truly could read your thoughts. If that were true, though, he’d surely have killed you before now for any of the unpleasantness you’d thought about him in your time here.

Casting off those thoughts, you winced and tried to back away from how his menacingly large body leaned at you. You reached up to wrap both hands around his wrist, needing the leverage as you tried to twist out of his grasp, but it was useless. He planted his knee on your groin, leaned his weight onto you, and pinned you like a bug beneath a magnifying glass.

It was both exhilarating and horrifying. His nearness, the perfection of his physique made your mouth water, your guts boil. But his very existence, his purpose, laced your every breath with fear. You never forgot that he could do away with you at any time, at any whim. Displease him enough and you would no longer be in the middle. You would lose your family to the ravages of time, with no one to remember them at all.

“There’s no hiding from me here.” His voice was gravel, all hard edges and ire. “Speak.”

His command, no different from what you’d give a pet, earned an annoyed snort on your part. Instantly, regret hit you like a freighter.  You clapped both hands over your mouth and wildly shook your head as though to convince him the act hadn’t been real. His narrow eyes and gritted teeth telegraphed enough for you to whimper, just like that frightened pet, and vault into begging.

“Nono!” You pressed at his chest urgently, pounding your fists against living granite. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean it! PleaseIdidn’tmeanitI’llbegood!”

“How many more times will you say it for it to be true?”

The corners of your mouth turned down; you could feel it. You couldn’t disagree. How many times had Nona chastised you for heeding your mother’s words? Forgiveness; not permission. Your lips wobbled. Your chin quivered. Dread weighted your voice.

“I’m sorry.” You splayed both hands across his pectorals, trying to not get caught up because, in fact, you felt a very muted, very slow pulse. “I’m trying to be good. You…” Mashing your lips together, you sniffled and stole a minute to figure out what to say next. “You’re not supposed to be real.”

But you are, you thought. You are, and you think I’m an idiot, and nothing I do will be right.

You hoped that it conveyed enough, that you wouldn’t have to say ‘I’m trying not to die every second I am here.’ You hoped that your face showed him you stayed here with him despite your fear, that the caress of your open hands told him your fight-or-flight response was dampened into delay.

Perhaps it was the pitiful look in your eye; or perhaps it was the tremble of your mouth that gave him pause. That ever-scrutinizing gaze bored into you for the longest of moments; and then, he stood up so abruptly you fell back against the mattress with a surprised huff.

Onto the bed next to you fell the cloak you wore at the battlefield and a pair of heavy, black boots.  You didn’t dare make a move and waited for him to say something, to give you any sign or instruction. But he sucked all the air out of the room with his preternatural calmness, and you realized he was waiting for you to obey the unspoken command and dress.

Taking a deep breath, and then another, you plucked one boot up into unsteady fingers and bent forward to shove your foot into it. A wholly unladylike grunt popped free as you tugged on the sides to get your heel in. Blowing hair away from your face, you worked for what felt like an eternity to lace the damn thing up your calf. By the time you finished with the second, you were lightheaded, sweaty, and irritated.

“The last time you ventured out,” he admonished, “You inserted yourself into a thorny bush.”

His rebuke caused your nose to wrinkle. The last time you were out, you didn’t venture. He threw you out, but arguing with a deity for a second time in an hour struck you as too much of a bad idea. You hoped he didn’t see the flash of anger in your eye as you turned, shucked the sweater, and shook out the cloak.

Before you could wrap the thing around your shoulders, you felt his fingers dance up the column of your spine. Clad in nothing but the clunky black boots, you swallowed hard as he turned you and tilted your face again. He hooked a finger into your collar and hefted you up so far you pranced on your toes, toppling into him with no balance. Naked save for his ownership and boots, your body warmed, rising to even this simple demand.

“So angry.” His voice slid like velvet, and you breathed gratitude that his annoyance had abated at least this bit. As your features eased and lips parted, he dipped his thumb into your mouth briefly, toying with the end of your tongue. “Better.”

It took every ounce of your willpower to not pout like a child. You even bit down on your lip to keep it from subconsciously poking out. Instead, you swept your lashes down to cover the tempest of feeling swirling there and waited for whatever came next. Setting you back on flat feet, he tugged the cloak around you with deft hands and buttoned it — much the way he did the first time, as though he were wrapping you up for his own delight.

Which may very well be true.

Unlike before, he didn’t throw you through the rooms or jostle you down the corridors. Rather, he walked on ahead and expected that you would follow. You ran to keep up with him, discomfited by the echo of your boots in the hallways whereas his made no sound at all. It was always off putting because a man so large should not be so stealthy.

At the mouth of his keep, the gaping maw carved into the side of a mountain, you stopped short of crossing the threshold. You folded your arms about your middle and chewed your upper lip, even taking a step back from it. He had reacted so violently to your original request that you, smartly, found this to be a dubious decision. It would surprise no part of you that he brought you here to test you, to see just how much of an idiot you still could be. Unsettled, you glued your eyes to the ground.

His voice, subtler than before and less agitated, broke through your anxious diatribe, and he tucked his hand beneath your upper arm and squeezed.

“You wanted to go outside.”

He tugged you through the opening and out into the ever-present twilight. At his side, you realized you held your breath. Releasing it, you stared up at him, stupefied.  You thought you should say something, but he pulled you further down the path, and you forgot what it might have been.

Rather than take you back the way you’d come, back towards the spot of your enslavement, The Ren led you onto a new path, one carpeted with forest green moss and decorated by trees overrun with climbing ivy, oak, sumac, and something else you couldn’t name, though it tingled at the edge of your brain.  

You hadn’t yet burst into flames, which was such a pleasing development that you allowed yourself to enjoy the scenery unfolding before you, albeit with trepidation.

Booted as you were, it wasn’t long before you ventured off of the path he leisurely strolled to investigate something hidden beneath a fallen branch or to find out what color that pretty flower was up close. He schooled you repeatedly to not touch that, be careful that one has thorns, or no you can’t taste that fruit.

It was pleasant, almost amiable; and soon, softened by the surrounding nature, you babbled at him, not sure if he was listening. You told him about the time you fell into nettles because you were curious and didn’t know what they were. And then you told him about the time you nearly poisoned your entire family when you mistook white dandelions for hogweed and made tea. 

Poised atop a rock, you looked upwards at winking stars and mused out loud that he must be right. Nona called you a curious child, but your mother spent many nights exasperated by your pursuits, though it was her lesson that molded you.

You grew so accustomed to the sound of your voice bouncing off of the trees that when he answered one of your queries, you froze. At some point, your wonder-filled monologue became laced with questions — most of which he ignored.  He answered this one, though, and the honeyed timbre vibrated in your bones.

“It’s a neurotoxin.”

An entire minute passed wherein you could only blink because you’d forgotten what you asked. Your stare swiveled from him to the tree and back again; but finally, it registered. You asked him what was the sticky stuff you could see weeping from the bark.  Canting your head, you nodded at the tree as though it had given you the answer itself when, in truth, you counted your blessings you hadn’t popped a finger through what you’d thought was molasses.

On you walked, and on you babbled.  Once he answered the first question, though, the trip morphed into nothing but.  Some he scoffed at; some he answered. He told you there were no animals here because it required his brother to breathe in life. From the tone of his voice, you inferred that having Solo here was not a joyous occasion.  He created this place, he said, to pass the time between reapings, but also because Solo’s universe was too bright, too loud.  He wanted something calm, something apart.

He cultivated fatal things, he said, because they were always the most beautiful, the most interesting.

Plucking something deep purple from a bush, he held out what looked to be a small blueberry. You blanched. Everything here was deadly; he’d spent this entire walk telling you not to touch or taste anything. And though you hadn’t entirely listened to what he told you, this screamed danger. Surely, it was another test.

His bass chuckle licked at your eardrums, melting your resolve. If he told you to drink hemlock, you knew you would.

Gingerly, you opened your mouth for him to deposit the thing and, ever so slowly, chewed it, waiting for it to kill you. Instead, the berry burst, an explosion of flavor. It was sweet with just the right amount of tart. The juice lingered on your tongue, and you hopped from one foot to the other with outright glee at how damn good it tasted.

He gave you a second one, if only to prevent you from diving headfirst into the lot, and turned you around with a swat to your ass, sending you forward on the path before you could ask him why you never felt hungry here. Around the next bend lay a thicket of reeds, whistling gently in the breeze that never died away. Straying from the road yet again, you brushed your hands through the inky stalks and rubbed at the cream-colored knuckles, appreciating how something so rigid, so fixed, could bend and sway with the wind.

 Humming softly, you closed your eyes and listened to their tune, losing track of even yourself in the angelic melody.

“Pick one.”

Your nose tugged up again at the idea that you’d have to taste it, but you didn’t argue. Looking around, you settled on a middling reed, neither too fat nor too thin. You could see now that they weren't black but rather a purple deeper than you'd ever seen. The hue of bruise, your subconscious offered.

Twisting the thing free from its base, you carried it back to him and offered it up. When your hand raised, he wrapped a long bit of vine around your wrist; and before you could register what happened, he lashed both arms together.

In less time than it took you to lace your boots, he had you bound face-first to a thick tree. 

You wanted to stomp and cry, to demand that he tell you what this was for because you tried so hard to be good. You hadn’t even touched anything until he said you could! Except you couldn’t say that for sure. So eager were you to explore and find new things, you didn’t remember if you waited for his clearance.

Forgiveness; not permission. Except in this case, punishment.

Finally making a better choice, you kept your mouth shut and turned away. Nothing mattered here except for his will, his desires.

“How many words did you disobey, little lamb? On that hilltop.”

Your head whipped around, and any color left in your face drained away. Realization dawned, and your eyes suddenly ached with disappointment.  This was all a ruse, a ploy, a beautiful lie.  He used your desire to be outside, to learn and discover against you so he could bring you here to discipline you.

Worse, he made you fetch your own fucking switch for it.

Air stuck in your throat, clinging to your windpipe like glue. You understood what the reed was for now, and your furtive glance saw him testing its resilience. 

You knew that if you answered wrong, or if you guessed, he would likely beat you until you couldn’t stand. But if you got it right, if your answer pleased him, maybe you escaped only abused rather than obliterated. You squeezed your eyes shut tight, willing your addled brain to remember. As best you could, you replayed the events of that day, that battle, that hilltop.

Stay here, he said. Touch nothing; speak to no one. Eight words.

You lifted your gaze to his and opened your mouth to speak, the rushed answer on the tip of your tongue. But a bell chimed in your head, and you licked at your front teeth, replaying everything again. His hand came to the back of your neck, his patience running out.

“Ten,” you said, breathless and anxious.

Ten words. Stay here. Touch nothing. Speak to no one. Stay here.

He said it twice.

Satisfied, he leaned in to nudge his nose at your temple. “Good girl.”

His wide hands roamed your body, shifting the cloak out of the way so your lower half was on lewd display. The cool wind whipped at your bare ass and slithered between your legs, eliciting a whimper. Caught somewhere between aroused anticipation and outright dread, you forced yourself to be still, to not twist in the bonds and beg him for a favor he surely did not possess.

The first hit came on a startling whistle. You hardly heard it before pain set fire to your backside, a sizzling stripe that radiated from the surface of your skin inwards. You yelped but kept yourself upright, though surged onto your toes.

Chastising yourself for thinking he might allow you to prepare, you settled your weight back down gingerly. There was no tenderness here, no warm up, no waiting for your readiness.  This was pure sanction, penance for your nonsense.

“The first. What was it?”

You cringed, shaking your head between your arms. You’d rather he asked you to count; but no, he wanted you to castigate yourself, to punctuate just how disobedient you’d been. Your eyes glossed over, slammed shut to keep the tide at bay. You swallowed sawdust, defeated.

“Stay.”

The word barely left your mouth before the second strike fell, just as shocking as the first. Clenching your teeth, you gouged craters into your palms with how hard you tried to not tremble.

“Here.”

Contented that you at least understood the point, that you worked out what you should say, he reached out to scratch at your fiery skin. He cupped one ass cheek, squeezing and lifting, but you only ground your jaw, rubbing your nose to stem the sniffling. His murmuring was lost to your dizziness as the next hit fell so hard your guts, your cunt, your thighs clenched.

“T-touch,” your voice was only a warble now, barely complying around a sob. The reed crashed down again, pulling a loud wail from the center of your chest. “Nothing.”

You dissolved into sobs, unable to even apologize through tears and hiccups. Your backside blazed from sacrum to kneecaps. Your ass swelled and throbbed and stung. You clawed away bark and debris until your fingertips and nails were raw and ruddy, but you didn’t care. All you could think was you were only halfway through this torment, and you would not make it to the end.

Your body screamed that you should beg, supplicate, and seek forgiveness; but once today already, you fumbled through an apology. Whatever mercy there may be in The Ren, it was not for this. Not for you.

Lost to your internal war, he took advantage of how little you paid attention and delivered a blow to your ass with the palm of his mighty hand. It landed with such force you screamed, knees buckling. He didn’t give you time to do your part, to speak the word, instead choosing to wind his free hand into your hair so tightly you heard some of it pull free. He drug you back onto your feet only to knock the wind out of you with another punch to the opposite cheek. You howled for him to stop, pleaded on broken sobs, but he walloped you another two times — one to each side — before letting you fall against the tree.

You shook so hard your teeth clattered. Damp from head to toes, you decided you must have lost control of your bladder because your thighs were wet, and your pussy felt loose and pliant. Although you were certain he didn’t hit you anywhere close to what he could have, you gripped your bond until your fingers bled. Thrown directly into the center of shock, any tears you had for him fled, chased away by the rush of thunder that was your erratic heartbeat.

Demanding, he snatched up your face, gouging at your jaws with his stony digits. Astonishingly, you produced what he waited for in a hoarse croak.

“Speak to no one.”

He spun you, shoved your back into the tree trunk, and ripped your lovely cloak to shreds. It hung in tatters, revealing your sweaty, shivering skin to his gaze, a gaze that roved each individual inch of you, taking in just how pitifully you swayed in the face of his lesson. He cupped your face and leaned in, drawing a deep breath to enjoy the scent of your fear.

“What’s left, lamb?”

Your eyes hurt; your lip bled. Your nose felt two sizes two big, and your voice was broken and labored. But his hand at your cheek soothed you. It was cool against your feverish flesh, steady against the tornado raging inside. He stroked your hips, fondled your breasts, pinched the welts he raised. 

“S-stay h-here.”

Crowding into you, he licked at your dry, cracked mouth and ran his fingers along your belly, down to graze at your sticky thighs. You burned with humiliation as he tutted to find dampness there, thinking you sealed your fate as his forever childling with how you managed to wet yourself when he beat you. But when he brushed his thumb along your lower lip, it wasn’t urine you tasted. It was the tang of your cunt, the tart lubrication you certainly didn’t remember producing.

He basked in your confusion, your fear and pain. He reveled in the way your thighs squeezed together, the way your tongue darted out to taste where his had been. You saw it in his face, the nearly human way he devoured you with those chameleon eyes.

When he kissed you, your head spun at the delirious taste of his mouth. You stood onto your toes to get closer to him, to kiss him again, but he buried his face into the crook of your neck, bit hard at your thumping vein, and whispered in your ear.

“Try to be good this time.”

And then he was gone.

You blinked hard, set atremble by the implication of his words. If you knew better, you would have wrapped your legs around his broad hips, clung to him with every ounce of your strength to beg that he not do this. If your brain worked faster, you’d have pleaded, promised him a hundred babies, a thousand years in captivity.

But none of it mattered.

He left you lashed to a tree, terrified and alone in a land of poison.

You did the only thing you could think of, the only thing that would provide even a hint of comfort.

You prayed.

May I be shelter for those who need shelter, A guide for those who seek Balance, A bridge for those who wish to cross the unknown.

May I be a beacon in the dark, A shoulder for the weary, A balm for those who are ill.

May I be a well of plenty, a river run deep, A sturdy plain, an unbroken path, a calm in the storm.

May I endure heartache and sorrow, Love and devotion, Want and need, That I may know our Fathers in heaven And join them in the middle way.